University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The pavilion, beside the Arno:—a table, lute, and drawing implements:—Demetria seated near a window opening to the evening sky.
Dem.
I feared some evil chance.—O! Cosmo, Cosmo!
Have I deserved such bitter punishment?—
If thou hast ceased to love, methinks, at least,
Thou mightst have broke the heavy truth more gently!
Such looks! such coldness! O, they chill to death.
Knowing the child I am in my affections,
Thou shouldst have weaned me tenderly. It had been
A generous tribute paid a wretch whose peace
Is gone for ever.—What can I have done?—
Sure, he 's not angered that I listed not
His suit, while tears (renewed at sight of him)
Streamed for a buried mother.—'T were not like him:—
It cannot be. (Pauses.)
O, time!—a change indeed!—
The night before he left us, here we sat;
Yon trees, the sky, the yellow-gleaming hills,
Thus beautiful! Then, when I weeping wished
To ope the volume of futurity,
How he consoled me! How he spoke, the while,
Of fading friendships, of forgotten love,
And when I warned him how new scenes, new hopes,
The intoxicating world, renown, and grandeur,
Might banish from his heart the faithful friends
And simple joys he loved at Belvederé,
Ah! what a look he gave me!—All forgotten!—
Had I foreseen it,—could I have believed it!—
The long, long interval,—and now at last,
The death of hope—O, Cosmo! Cosmo!
(Overcome with emotion, covers her face.)
It cannot last—my heart is not so stubborn.—
(Unties a small parcel of letters lying on the table.)
This reached me,—O! I well remember it,—
My hand clasped fast in my sweet mother's!—Hours
Of rapture! that 't is death to think on now!—
One parting look, and I have done.

(Unfolds a letter, which she peruses with a fluctuating countenance. Meanwhile a fishing boat, containing two persons in masks, glides from behind a woody point towards the pavilion. The Masks step out, and approach Demetria, who is too much abstracted to perceive them.
First Mask.
Well, Signorina,—

Dem.
(springing up.)
Ha! what seek ye here?

First Mask.
No treachery. Can you tell us—

Dem.
(retreating.)
Heavens! Why do you follow me?

First Mask.
(still advancing.)
We lost our way, Madonna,—we stopped here—
(Seizing her.)
No noise,—no screaming,—not, as life is dear,—
Be still—hush! hush!—no harm shall come to ye.

(Forces her towards the boat.)
Dem.
(tearing his hand from her mouth.)
Help!—mercy!—help!

Second Mask.
(covering her mouth.)
Hush!—silence!—else the Arno 's near—

(Just as they lay hands on her, Cosmo is seen approaching with a gloomy air along the path from the wood. Startled by her cry, he stops to observe; then rushes towards her with frantic speed, arriving, as she faints and they are proceeding to lay her in the boat.)
Cos.
Ha, ruffian!
(Stabs one of the Masks, who falls in the water:—the other retreats a step, draws, and advances fiercely upon him. Cosmo wounds him, and pressing him, he leaps into the boat and pushes off.)
What fiends are these?
(Tears off the mask of the fallen man.)
What can it mean?
(Raising Demetria in his arms.)
How pale!
Good heaven! she 's dead—or dying! What 's the best?
Merciful Father!—is there none to help me?—
(Hangs over her in terror, sprinkling water in her face.)
She 's gone!—her cheek 's death white!—Demetria!
My angel! O my only love! Have I
Frowned on thee? I been angry?—Now, she 's gone!
Curse, curse upon my cruelty! (Dem. sighs.)
She lives!
She breathes!
(Loosens her sash, and bears her to one of the seats of the pavilion.)
Demetria!—speak!—O, speak to me!
How deep—heart-breaking was that sob!—Ha! hold!

(He retires a little, and stands watching her: in a few moments she half rises, and looks wildly round, without perceiving him.)
Dem.
Where am I? Was it—could it be a dream?
Methought a sweet and mournful voice, but now,
Was murmuring in my ear— (Perceives Cosmo.)


Cos.
(coming forward.)
How farest thou, lady?

Dem.
Have I been dreaming, or a moment since
Was set upon?

Cos.
Your piercing cries alarmed me.
Know you the villains?

Dem.
No, my lord.
What came of them?

Cos.
One fled; the other lies there.

Dem.
(seeing his sleeve stained with blood.)
Heavens! art thou wounded, Cosmo?

Cos.
(with deep emotion.)
Wounded?—No,—
He only grazed me.

Dem.
O! you bleed apace!

Cos.
There are—there is a wound—
(Falters and pauses.)
Lady, your handkerchief—pray bind it there—

(She knots her handkerchief round his arm.)
Dem.
Let me assist you homeward—Lean on me—
You 're growing paler.

Cos.
(rises, and sinks back.)
Yes—I have a wound—
Deep—mortal,—that the grave must answer.

Dem.
(terrified.)
O, heaven!—

Cos.
A stab most cruel—but a bloodless one.

Dem.
(her eyes resting on the floor.)
My lord,—
Will 't please you to escape the chill night air?

Cos.
And wherefore?—'t is not like a cold false heart.

Dem.
(gathers up the letters, and binds the riband round them, while Cosmo sits speechless, watching her.)
Here are some letters,—which,—my lord,—in days
Best now forgotten— (Faintly.)
Receive them, Sir.

Cos.
(grasping the letters.)
All very well.

Dem.
You had a picture—valueless indeed—
A little portrait,—will you give it me?

Cos.
A picture?

Dem.
Scarcely worth remembrance—

Cos.
(who had involuntarily put his hand into his bosom, withdraws it.)
Lady,—that picture—I was robbed—one night,
Crossing a forest in the Tyrol mountains—
In a dark gorge, some brigands rushed upon me—
They took purse, ring, and all,—a precious ring,—
I much deplored the chance.—The ring I had
From an Archduchess' daughter.

Dem.
I'll send you aid.

(Passes him swiftly, and leaves the pavilion.)
Cos.
(watching till she disappears.)
So then—all 's over!—
Here are my letters—scorn'd—given up;—though dyed
With my heart's blood!—O, murderous memory!
(Lays them down, and looks round him.)
Beside that lattice I confessed my passion,—
Yon eglantine she drew to shade her face!—
O, heaven!—O, hell!—

(Starts up, tears the letters in fragments, and hurries away into the thick part of the wood.)

SCENE II.

A corridor, near a chamber door:—Bianca passes cautiously along.
Bian.
That cabinet will skreen me.—By and by
I'll take my stand.—I may o'erhear yet more;
Or, some way, take her in her craft.—How now!
What light is that gleams from the Countess' chamber?
Who should be there?—

(Listens a moment, and then exit softly.)

SCENE III.

An antique chamber: the walls tapestried: on one side of the bed, a picture of the Countess Amerigo:— by the light of a lamp standing on a table before a mirror, Demetria seen walking the room with a disordered mien.
Dem.
Married!—To-morrow!—Cosmo and Olivia!
Do not my senses pass some horrid juggle?
Some slight of darkness but to lure my doom?—
Hush!—Shadows seem to flit around me.—Oh!
To-morrow!—my sister's wedding day!—O, where,
Where, where, shall I be?—
(Walks distractedly up and down: at last, stops before her mother's picture, bursting into tears.)
O, mother! mother! why art thou not here?—
In vain are all thy cautions,—vain thy counsels!—
O! had I listened,—had I but believed thee!
Oft hast thou warned, prophetically warned me.—
Thy worst forebodings all have come upon me!—
Why, why, art thou not here?—O, could I pour
My anguish in thy bosom!—Could thy voice
But once more greet me! I'm alone:—I 've none
To comfort me. Now, when my cry ascends,
Thou canst not hear! O, wert thou here,—couldst thou
But clasp me!—

Enter Bianca.
Bian.
Who 's here?—Signora,—my sweet child—
What! is it you that sob so bitterly?
Be comforted: do not weep so.

Dem.
Leave me.

Bian.
Alone, in this dusk chamber? No indeed.
It overcomes me too: it brings to mind
Sorrowful times. When my dear lady died,
Just so it looked,—heart-breaking to us all.
Alack! alack! she, too, poor suffering soul,
Although she smiles so sweet in yonder picture,
Had griefs you little dream of.

Dem.
What mean'st thou?

Bian.
I know what ails thee, though thou speakest not.
I read it all. Thy face has been my book
Too long, sweet child.—My lady, too, was crossed.

Dem.
My mother?

Bian.
Oft at her bed's foot have I spent
The weary watches, while her swelling heart
Discharged its burthen.

Dem.
Heavens!—I never heard—
Tell me, Bianca,—crossed?

Bian.
In love, Signora.
Thou never heard'st it—no, nor any other.
'T was known, indeed, the Marquis broke a love troth,
But I alone was privy to the matter.

Dem.
Tell me, Bianca,—how was this? It seems
Most strange.

Bian.
When just seventeen, she went to Naples,
Where the Marchesa lived, her father's sister.
The Marquis dwelt, you know, at Tivoli,
A Roman born, and stern as Marcus Cato.—
Three months she lingered. Well, soon afterwards
A handsome Gascon chevalier came to us,
Tall, graceful, handsomer by far than Cosmo.
His looks betrayed his business; and her eyes
Spake too intelligibly. One and all
Imagined we must part with our loved mistress,
Not dreaming that her father would oppose her.

Dem.
Did he, Bianca?

Bian.
Don't look so wild, and speak so passionate.—
Next morning they were closeted, and brief work
He made of it. If she took Count Démétrée
(His name), he swore she forfeited for ever
His presence, heart, and dying benediction.

Dem.
O! my poor mother, how must this
Have fallen on thee!

Bian.
Being called in haste,
I found my lady swooned, the Marquis wroth,
The stranger gone.

Dem.
Why was this cruelty?

Bian.
Because the Marquis loathed a Huguenot.

Dem.
Inhuman!

Bian.
All that day, my lady kept
Fainting, and, as it were, 'twixt life and death.
The next night she dismissed me to my rest;
But waking, and afraid she lacked, I softly
Stole to her chamber. Think of my amazement!—
Her bed was empty,—the balcony open!
It jutted o'er the garden, and I heard
Murmurs like plaintive voices. Looking out,
I saw them. Then, indeed, I lent an ear:—
I feared her flight: the slant moon showed it midnight:
The snort and stamp of horses made me think
All things were ready; (so indeed they were;)
But filial duty triumphed. O! their parting!—
At first he urged her, but at last consoled.
In fine, they bade adieu, to meet no more.

Dem.
And did they never?

Bian.
Ere a year,
He fell in Flanders.

Dem.
Luckless, luckless mother!
Whom hadst thou then to comfort thee?

Bian.
No soul. She knew no comfort. Life
Wore on, without complaint, but never gladdened.
At last, I told her what I saw; and then
She gave me all her story.

Dem.
Ah!—
Methinks I hear her!—O, how looked she?—Say,
Bianca,—give to me her very tones.

Bian.
Meek, patient; striving still to cheer the Marquis;
Who fell, at last, into a melancholy.

Dem.
Now, now, I know why clouds came over thee
As often as we questioned of thy youth.
Well mightst thou warn me,—feelingly couldst thou
Enlarge on such a theme.

Bian.
Time blunted sorrow;
But never was my lady what she had been
In her May morning.

Dem.
Yet a seraph smile
Plays yonder round her lip.

Bian.
Yourself, Signora,
A tiny, blue-eyed thing lay in my arms,
Brimful of glee, reaching your little hands
As if to tempt her. 'T is at you she smiles.

Dem.
(going towards the picture.)
Was it on me?—did I draw forth that smile?—
Ah! why not told ere this?—That I had known
Thy story, too! Couldst thou so sweetly smile?
Couldst thou seem happy, and shall I complain?
Just Heaven, forgive my wild designs. I'll suffer:—
I'll bear it all:—though sorrows overwhelm me,
I'll never murmur for her angel sake.

Bian.
(Falling on her knees, and clasping Demetria's feet.)
O, now I'm happy,—blest and happy,—
Ah! my sweet child, I heard thy bitter wail;
I heard thy dreadful menaces. Praise Jesu!
Thou hast abandoned them. Though judgments fall
With weight upon thee, threat not life. My child,
Self-murder is a sin unpardonable:
No rite, mass, sacrament, nothing can reach it!
Think! Should she stretch from bliss in vain to save
A suicidal outcast—

Dem.
Stop! stop!—O, speak not thus!—'T is dreadful!—Heaven
Forgive the impious thought!—I'll bear it.—Rise.
But O! I hope the trial will not last!
When, when, may I lie down in peace?

Bian.
Be cheered,
Sweet lady; strength will be vouchsafed ye.

Dem.
No,—
But is it settled? Will it be to-morrow?

Bian.
I fear.

Dem.
What says she? Has she asked to see me?

Bian.
No, Signora.

Dem.
Cruel, cruel sister!
I would not so have marred thy peace, to gain
A world.

Bian.
Kin are not kind, in this we live in—
One would imagine.—But they 're both a tiptoe.—
Malicious serpent!—Mark my words—that slut
Hath scorpions at her conscience. Late last night
Crossing the upper corridor, there came
A moan as from her chamber; stopping by it,
I heard her muttering in her sleep a jargon—
The horridest jumble ever put together—about
Some funeral, or marriage ceremony.
O, yes, I'm certain something damning weighs
Upon her. “Quick,” she cried, “the nuptial pall!
Call in the music!—screw the lid!—Foh! foh!”
She named that Barbadeca twice, and whispered,
“Be secret, secret, secret,—but no blood.”
And then she 'd groan. I could not make her drift;
But am resolved to watch again to-night.
Pernicious viper! now she 's with Olivia
Fingering the bridal ornaments—

Dem.
Bianca! Oh! Bianca!—

Bian.
Take heart, Signora.

Dem.
Would I were in my grave.

Bian.
Something is wrong.—
Look at him, if his woe-gone face be lit
With nuptial smiles. He locks himself apart,
Or roams about, as restless as a ghost;
Trust me, he loves thee still, and some vile wretch
(That imp—who knows?) has some how slandered thee.

Dem.
It cannot be.

Bian.
I 'd risk my life 't is so.
What else can so have changed him?

Dem.
No—O no.
Whom have I injured? What could she say of me?

Bian.
Thou fanciest every breast as pure as thine.
Let me expostulate with him, and know
If some false tale—

Dem.
(vehemently.)
I charge thee, no—no, as thou lovest me.—What!
Degrade myself to that?—Sue for his pity?—
Seek to reclaim a fickle lover?—Never!
I charge thee as my peace—my life is dear,
Never to do it. Promise—swear to me.

Bian.
Be calm, be calm, Signora; I'll obey thee.

Dem.
If he can harbour slanderous tales against me,
He ne'er shall know his error, till too late.
But when my aching heart 's at rest for ever—
Then,—if he finds he wronged me,—let him come
And weep his hard suspicions where I lie.

Bian.
(taking the lamp and Demetria's arm.)
Come, lady, let us leave this gloomy chamber:—
Yon grisly heathen in the tapestry
Scowl on us;—verily they daunt me:—come.

(Leads her out.)

SCENE IV.

The garden, at midnight: the sky lowering. Cosmo enters without a hat: after wandering about disturbedly, throws himself on the ground.
Cos.
O that I were a shackled slave!—the wretched'st
That ever earned the bread of toil!—Marry her!
What, marry—I cannot—O, no, no—
What fiend seduced?—what worse than frenzy—Oh!
To-morrow—and farewell to hope—linked, linked,
Indissolubly linked to life-long woe!—
Where, now, are all those dreams of bliss,
So dear, so tender, they attuned my heart
To ecstasy?—Gone, perished, blotted out,
With that fair, fancied excellence!—Can she
Sleep sweetly while such billows toss my soul?—
Yonder 's her chamber—Lies she there
In tranquil slumber? Ah! who 's in her dream?
Once—But never, never, never more!—
Mountains have risen, oceans roll between us!—
O! what a snare is tangled round me—

Enter Orsini.
Ors.
This way the sound was.—Ha!
(Perceiving Cosmo on the ground.)
Is this kind dealing, Cosmo?
Why not impart thy sorrows to a friend?

Cos.
Intrude not here. Who spoke of sorrows? Leave me.

Ors.
Small skill have I in marriage mysteries,
Or aught pertaining to the sex thou dotest on,
But if these be the nuptial joys I came
To witness, gods keep me ungyved, and grant
No mistress but my sword. I thought to see
A bridegroom's face caparisoned in smiles,
Love-knots and wreaths of roses blooming round
His voluntary chains; a merry prelude,
Whatever might come after. But, by Heaven,
When you came forth to welcome me, a thief's,
A sentenced traitor's look was ne'er more haggard.
Their faces all within seem clad in mourning.
How savagely you answered, when I broke
A harmless jest on your approaching bondage.

Cos.
Death, poverty, or shame,—but name not that!

Ors.
Why there it is!—Speak out.—What is it wrings
Thy spirit thus?—I 've heard thy hasty step
Beating the chamber; heard thee stealing out,
And, on my soul, I knew not but thou 'dst come
To do some rashness. Speak. What ails thee?

Cos.
I'm a wretch.

Ors.
What cursed thing has happened?

Cos.
I'm betrayed.
Leave me.

Ors.
Who has betrayed thee?

Cos.
She,—the fiend
Who had my heart in keeping.

Ors.
Weary not
My patience. Tell the plain, right onward story;
Then, if heart, sword, or honest counsel—

Cos.
Remember'st—Know'st of whom so oft I spake?

Ors.
Demetria.

Cos.
O! I thought in her was summed
All excellence,—so pure, so gentle, faithful—

Ors.
I know you thought so.

Cos.
Thought her heart my prize;
Believed she loved me with a spotless passion.
To see me wedded to this paragon
I asked thy presence.

Ors.
Well?

Cos.
She 's false—I'm cozened;—
To serve her amorous purpose with another,
She but dissembled.

Ors.
What! and still thou wed'st her?

Cos.
Wed'st?—O, heaven!—
No, no, I do not wed her!—Carlo! ah!
I'm not so blessed. For, spite of all,—wrongs, guilt,
And shame,—spite of my soul, I love her.

Ors.
Curse—
And dost thou beat up this ado, because
The cunning harlotry has spared thy name
To brand dishonor elsewhere?

Cos.
No, I say.

Ors.
What then? Unfold your riddles.

Cos.
That this, that this
Were all!—and yet 't were cause methinks.—
Orsini,—O!—to-morrow—curse upon it!—
Shackles me to Olivia.

Ors.
(checking surprise.)
Well, she 's fair,
And stately; what of that?

Cos.
I love her not;—
Have I not told thee?—Every fibre clings
To that deceiver.

Ors.
Rash, misguided man!
Thinking to pique her, make her feel, with all
Her wiles she could not hurt thee, thou hast pulled
Destruction on thy head.

Cos.
Thou hast it.

Ors.
Jove!
I pity thee. How couldst thou be so mad?
Cast prudence clean away? and fling the reins
To wildest—

Cos.
Spare your breath:—I'm in no mood:—
Go to the earthquake:—ask why it desolates.

Ors.
But how was this discovered? Who unmasked her?
Is it proved? certain?

Cos.
As the hell that racks me.

Ors.
But how? how proved?

Cos.
By her own letter,—
A fair confession, written out—I saw it—
In her own hand. A maid, too,—honest soul,—
Told me the whole,—who 'd seen their private meetings,
O'erheard their plots, and heard them jeer me.

Ors.
Damn her!
For manhood, shame, waste not another sigh
On such a cockatrice. Drop on thy knees,
And bless the miracle of thine escape.
By Janus! he who not—who scorns not—bans not,—
Were fitter to squeak treble to a choir,
Be doorkeeper to a harem, shaveling monk,
Than to enroll himself with noble men,
And belt the warrior's glaive.

Cos.
Thou know'st not what it is;—
O! that I could—curse,—hate her,—cast her off;—
But ah! she circles in the vital stream
That nourishes my heart: life stops without her.

Ors.
Forbear! this sorceress has bewitched thee, Cosmo.
Think, what must follow such unmanly yielding:
This feebleness will tarnish every laurel,
Destroy thy peace for ever.

Cos.
O, I know it.
Why tell of that?—Think'st thou I hope for peace?
Thou dost not feel,—thou canst not understand me.

Ors.
Indeed, I feel; but as a soldier ought—

Cos.
(starting suddenly and grasping Orsini.)
She 's there! she 's there!
(The lattice of Demetria's window uncloses, and, by the light burning within, she is seen before it. Cosmo watches her with breathless emotion, holding Orsini fast. In a few moments she retires, then reappears with her lute, and touches a melancholy air. Cosmo hides his face on Orsini's shoulder.)
O, heavens! the same,—the very same!

Ors.
Beware! she hears thee.

(Alarmed by their voices, Demetria looks towards the spot where they stand; closes the lattice and retires.)
Cos.
The notes she struck the night I first beheld her!—
Both children.—Little, little I imagined—
O! that mine eyes had never seen her!

Ors.
Gods!
If wishing would avail, I would wish too.

Cos.
From that same hour I loved her, watched her spread
Into the matchless thing I left her.—Curse
Ambition! curse on glory! cursed be all
That made me leave her. Had I been wise and watchful,
She had been spotless, I too happy! Now—
O! Carlo, Carlo! what does this drear world
Contain for me?—Ah! yes, one joy awaits me;—
I'm to be married,—married to another.

Ors.
Come, come, let 's not stay here all night.

Cos.
What subtle fiend contrived this crown to misery?
I might have dreamed upon her,—might have hoped;—
Now, I'm to plunge lower than Erebus,
Deeper than hell, where not a dungeon glimmer
Can cleave the solid darkness. O! that Honor
Did not confront me—tyrant!—well I know—
I 'd not stand shivering on the brink—

Ors.
O, foul!
What, win her? fix the day? almost espouse her,
And then desert?

Cos.
Orsini, till this hour,
I 've kept the path of honor. Need I now
Thy counsel to sustain me?—There it is,—
That idol chains me.—Were my fate but once
Mine own, I know—

Ors.
It grieves me, dearest Cosmo,—

Cos.
Am not I, now, the veriest slave?—The blow,
The only blow that can emancipate,
Annihilates mine honor?

Ors.
Give o'er such thoughts.

Cos.
Leave me, Orsini. It is mockery
To stuff my ears with womanish condolence.
Am I not capable to scan my fate
With eyes as keen as thine? Point me a straw,
A gossamer, to snatch at,—any way
To scape this pit of horrors—Canst thou?—
Away, then!—Leave me to my solitude.

Ors.
No, Cosmo, thou art mad with sorrow. Clouds, too,
Are gathering—

Cos.
Honest Carlo, prithee leave me.
Dost apprehend violence upon myself?
Look!—here 's my dagger,—take it. On my soul
I 've now no weapon.—Only leave me.

Ors.
Ah!—
Is this a place, or hour, for meditation?
Come, Cosmo, come; return with me to shelter.

(Takes hold of him.)
Cos.
(grasping Orsini.)
Must I be penned in corners? watched? schooled? bayed?
Lose my last privilege?—Back!—I warn thee!—Back!
Follow me not.

(Thrusts Orsini from him, and exit down the garden.)
Ors.
(looking after him.)
'T is mockery, indeed.—His passion swells
Beyond all governance. I could weep too.—
Must this go on?—Is there no remedy?—
How if his uncle should step in?—Were 't best?—
But who can break with him?—I dare not do it:—
First, being but a stranger; then my friend
Would hold himself dishonored and betrayed.—
I fear he is undone!—Most fatal rashness!—
Poor wretch!—I dare not leave him out all night.
Here, in this arbour, I will watch awhile.

(Retires.)